I have within me the capacity to hate what I am. In times I can see how the mind mentions its flavor of condemnation. In the form of not doing enough, or being enough. All colors of the same self doubt.
In a way, I agree with the mind. It is true that who I think I am is not enough, the imagined story of me. It is true that I will never live up to this expectation or condition of a socially perfect someone.
In this truth, I am delightfully forced to give up. To give up a game in which I will always lose. This game being that of becoming a someone who is good enough.
In the absence of this, what remains… is the sunshine on my toes.